Poppies in the snow
by Prestwick
Summary: A Rememberance Day fic.


My name is David Faringdon. I am a Captain. I am military labor operator (or jockey as we call them here in the British army). I actually operate a Helldiver mk2 these days although in 1995 I operated a mk1 (built on license by Vickers Defense industries). I am part of the Labor Airborne detachment. I am attached to 3rd Battalion, Parachute regiment.  
  
I was sent to Bosnia with the rest of my detachment (five Helldivers plus support staff and equipment) with 3 Para to beef up the British led UN peacekeeping force. My exit from Colchester barracks was a hurried one, administering a unit of around 70 men and making sure my own labor is in top condition is a highly stressful job.   
  
The Balkans in winter is a far cry from the Gulf in 1991 and Germany. My original experience as a tanker in the Blues and Royals wasn't enough to equip me to the distinct enviroment of armoured labor warfare. Operating a large weapons platform which is also a much larger target than a Warrior armoured vehicle or even a Challenger MBT, the Helldiver was equipped with a 30mm Rarden cannon. In my section was a Helldiver equiped with shoulder mounted TOW missles and another with a light gatling gun, making room for communications and electronic warfare gear. The last two were equipped in the same configuration as mine.  
  
Our first days were spent in the areas to the North East of Sarajevo. We were strangely positioned more or less between the Bosnian-Croat and Serbian positions. Heavy fighting had continued apace to the east of us as we constructed our buildings. We shared our camp with elements of 7th Armoured Brigade (who had been here for over a year now) and a small French garrison, I forget exactly who because we never really saw them.  
  
By then, we had heard the disaster at Srebrenica as it was passed down the lines. It was quite an irony that neither the UN Civilian or Military people were allowed through the lines to find out what had happened and yet the BBC had some pictures of the aftermath. At the town was a small garrison of Dutch peacekeepers, and after an ordeal which had apparently involved a set of blunders which in the end meant that the Commander at the UN safe haven had no choice but to capitulate to the massed Serbian army surrounding it. Rumours had said that over 10,000 Bosnian Musilim men and boys had been murdered in cold blood.  
  
The Dutch had stopped here while they were travelling back from Srebrenica. We looked at them quizically, we used to reply to any mention of the Dutch forces with "oh those chaps who wear hair nets on parade". But now we were silent, their faces were blank, drained of all colour. They didn't say anything because their faces told everything we wanted to know. The trucks left after an hour, taking their silent stories with them.  
  
Our area of responsibility was administering the transfer of Bosnian Muslim refugees from Serbian territory to either other UN Safe Areas, the lads below on the ground would do all the work and me and my section would just guard vital points. Our area of responsibility for that day was Tujla, a small village between Sarajevo and Srebrenica. The snow was slowly falling, covering my Helldiver with a gentle coat of white. I remember that day well.  
  
We were beefing up B company as they worked on helping the refugees on their way. There were UNHCR administrators and Red Cross workers handing our cups of soup. I wished I had a cup of soup as my Helldiver's heating system had failed that week. Dutch mobile infantry were also in attendence, working with their British counterparts in helping the Refugee on their way. Several M113s if the worst came but for now they provided transport which the Paras happily appreciated.  
  
Suddenly I remember there was a spot of panic at the back of the refugee collumn. Some Paras ran off to see what was going on, I listened to the radio net, quite interested. There was a frenzy of activity, the section which looked to see what the commotion was about were shouting down their line, calling for an anti-tank section, an M113, a Helldiver, *anything*.  
  
On the internal net I called for the anti-tank unit to follow my lead, turning to move up the road, I made room for the Dutch as they turned. If whatever was up the road had scared five red berets, we'd need all the support we could get. The Company commander was on to the Battalion Colonel, something about a NATO intervention or something along those lines. This was when they arrived.  
  
Five of them, large, dark green mixed with grey, splashed with mud. Huge goliaths, their old numbers in black like some biblical reference. I do remember the numbers most distinctly. They were Doskas. Heavy labors. Very powerful, heavy labors. I froze (although my Helldiver kept going forward), I thought I saw the pilot of the leading Doska, he was smiling as he slid down into the cockpit, he knew he had already won.  
  
I wasn't in the mood for backing down however. The Paras ran back behind us as we moved forward. I heard on the net, a milan team was moving forward to join us in the stand off. The Doskas moved forward, moving to push us out of the way. We stood our ground. The Dutch were silent over the net, it seemed as though we were either waiting on each other to do something or waiting for us to wait for word from Battalion HQ (who were in turn were waiting for word from the UN HQ at Sarajevo).  
  
I decided to do something, as the Doskas took another step, I picked up the Green card and turned on the speaker "Attention!" I said, pausing for a second, reading would they understand English? There didn't seem to be a slavic translation on the new Green card we were handled so I began the procedure.  
  
"Stop or I will open fire!" I said loudly. The Doskas stopped for a second, probabbly to observe the scene before them, the Refugees had managed to flee behind us, the other Helldivers were slowly creeping round the opposite side of the village as were the other Dutch and British forces. Suddenly the Doskas moved forward again. I moved forward slightly and repeated my demand to stop, calling on my right hand man in the TWO Helldiver to taget the Doska to the left of the lead. The Doskas haven't seemed to hear us and continued, I pointed my Rarden cannon to the sky and pressed my finger on the trigger when suddenly the Dutch opened up. The M113's were firing, moving into cover as they did, the fire hit the lead Doska directly in the head, very well aimed, blowing it clean off and effectivly disabling it.   
  
I barked into the net to fire, two TOW missles streaked past me, hitting the next Doska in the legs, trying to put it out of commission. The Milan team creeped up between the wreaked houses, I and my fellow Helldiver were moving to cover quickly, I was firing with my Rarden, struggling to try and keep myself alive as the Doskas fired, rockets went everywhere, and cannon fire blew holes in buildings, sending bricks and mortar flying all over the place.  
  
A rocket had hit the wall in front as I moved, the force of the blast was cushioned by the wall but still knocked me off balance, the Helldiver's self balance system kicked in and I staggered back. Right into the open it seemed.  
  
The first sign of the rocket was a yell down the net. It sounded dutch, I looked up at the monitor, I saw the bright glow from the Doska as it too was hit by a TOW missle and Rarden fire from the M113's. It was like the sun, the sun on that day near Basra in the first Gulf War, seeing the road full of charcoal people, as if they had stayed too much in the sun on holiday in Spain.  
  
The bang was immense, the Helldiver groaned, staggering back, the wheeze and whine of the pistons and the self righting mechanism protesting. Blood poured out of my ears, the pain in my head was incredible as I felt it stabalise. My vision was blurry, I felt that my helmet starting to be soaked slightly with blood as I pulled it off. The communications gear blarring with requests for status and if I was okay. I looked to the upper corner. A huge dent had appaeared, the newly fitted ablative armour had done its job but the sheer force of the explosion had cracked my head through the headrest behind me and against the metal wall. I felt the back of my head and looked at the hand. Blood.  
  
I thought I was dying, this was it I thought. I quickly thought of where my body would be, would I be buried here? In a British War Cemetary in the former Yugoslavia? Or would I be flown home? My personal preference would be here, my father is buried somewhere in South Korea and our trips there were generally very nice. However felt further and noted it was just a light cut, perhaps my ears had bled a bit as well.  
  
I knelt the Helldiver down and blew the escape mechanism, falling down to the ground and onto my knees. My green jumpsuit, splattered with blood as men ran to me. I beleive I heard a medic call for a casavac, noting that I had cracked my head and might be suffering from concussion. The last thing I saw as I blacked out was the Union Flag on the front of my Labor (which had taken the full brunt of the blast). It had taken a pounding, but it was still there.  
  
I smiled.   
  
Forever Britain.  
  
(As tomorrow (the 11th of November 2003) is Armistice Day, I thought I'd write a fanfic which would hit along that theme of Rememberance of conflicts both old and new that British and Commonwealth (Canadian, Austrailian, etc) servicemen gave the ultimate sacrifice. I hope you enjoy it and I hope you'll pause to remember in the 2 minutes silence tomorrow at 11am. The Eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.) 


End file.
